


These Snakeskin Boots

by atmilliways



Series: And That's Just What They'll Do [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Anathema Device Ships Aziraphale/Crowley, Crowley Has Long Hair (Good Omens), Crowley nearly hitting people with his car as a plot device (Good Omens), Crowley needs friends besides Aziraphale, Fluff, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Implied/Referenced Sex, Multi, Other, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Practice Kissing, Trans Woman Newt Pulsifer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21845680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/atmilliways/pseuds/atmilliways
Summary: Since his unexpected “retirement” after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t, Crowley has realized that he doesn’t really have any hobbies. Tempting is fun but still feels like more of a work-habit, and there are only so many cinemas one can sneak into without paying before running out of new movies to see. Lately he’s been experimenting with making new friends—as in, besides Aziraphale. It hasn’t quite gone as expected. . . .
Relationships: Anathema Device & Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device/ Crowley (Good Omens)/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: And That's Just What They'll Do [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573864
Comments: 6
Kudos: 54
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	1. A Monday in December

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Adenil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Adenil/gifts).



> Huge thanks to everyone who read this over for me and giving helpful comments—including Lurlur for Brit-picking, D20Owlbear for encouragement, and quiet_or_die for teaching me more about grammar and punctuation than I ever learned in a classroom. 
> 
> Happy Holidays to Adenil! I did my best to use all of the possible prompts you suggested, although one of them doesn't really come into play until the second fic in this series (which I am still fretting over/having beta'd). Hope you enjoy.

After quite a bit of unintended research and personal experience, Crowley has arrived at the conclusion that Tuesdays are, in general, the worst day of the week to make important plans. The day he had Fallen had probably been a Tuesday. It’s a Monday night, and his exploits on the preceding handful of Tuesdays have left him feeling so awkward, restless, and awkward again that he’s willing to throw himself at Aziraphale’s mercy. 

Without, of course, actually telling him anything about said exploits. Or why, for the time being, he’s chucked his mobile in the Thames for safekeeping.

“Let me see if I have this right,” Aziraphale says, passing Crowley a perfect five-ounce pour of a beautifully aged, full-bodied red. “You would like me to make all of your decisions for you for a twenty-four hour period, starting at midnight this evening?”

“Yeah,” Crowley mumbles, then takes a heady swig of wine and ignores the angel’s little moue of disapproval. “Just feel like I’ve been getting into a bit of a weird rut lately. Gotta shake up the routine, do something different.” He slouches further onto the sofa. “Can’t think of anything, though. It’s a shame that retirement in our lines of work doesn’t come with a manual.”

“Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve,” Aziraphale points out. 

“Well, yeah. Good time to start changing things up, right?”

It’s taking a great deal of willpower not to expect that Aziraphale will simply decline. That line of thinking is what got Crowley into this spot in the first place. 

Aziraphale sips thoughtfully. “Really though, my dear, _all_ of your decisions?”

“Well . . . yeah, I mean, within reason. I wouldn’t walk off a cliff just because you told me to.

“Hm. . . . Noted.” 

_He’s seriously considering this_ , Crowley realizes, so surprised in spite of himself that he blinks behind his sunglasses. _Gosh_. Thank Someone he can avoid blushing without much effort. 

Aziraphale mulls it over for another moment, then gives a decisive nod. “If you think it would help, I’d be happy to give it a go. But only on one condition.”

“Ernk,” Crowley croaks. He clears his throat and tries again. “What’s that?”

“You,” Aziraphale tells him seriously, with steady eye contact and everything, “must come up with a safe word or phrase to use if I overstep my bounds or cause you to feel in any way uncomfortable.”

Somehow, if Crowley had been asked before this moment if Aziraphale knew what a safeword was or the sort of activities it could imply, he would have laughed outright and suggested you _pull the other one, it’s got bells on_. Now that he’s been struck wrong about the former, he has no earthly idea about the latter. 

“Okay. . . .” Feeling as though he’s gotten himself in much deeper to something than he’d meant to, yet finding it unexpectedly thrilling, Crowley downs another mouthful of wine. “Erm. How about . . . ‘free will’?”

Aziraphale favors him with a smile. “That will do nicely, my dear.”

This, Crowley is now keenly aware, might prove to be a far better distraction than he could’ve hoped for.


	2. A Tuesday in May, 7 Months Ago

Crowley stomped moodily down the front steps of the bookshop, quite discontent with how the day was going so far. 

He had _intended_ to lounge around all afternoon and then casually suggest going out to a new and interesting restaurant he’d heard of. Instead, Aziraphale had tossed him out on his ear (in the most polite way possible, of course) before it was even noon, simply for coiling up in snake form in a warm puddle of sunlight and causing a scene when some human stumbled across him unexpectedly. Which wasn’t even _fair_ , in Crowley’s opinion, because normally Aziraphale didn’t really mind when customer-humans got scared off. But the screams had caused the angel to upset his mug of cocoa over a newly acquired folio, and though it was easily fixed with a quick miracle, Aziraphale had been rather testy about the whole thing. 

“ _Do_ stop lurking underfoot, there’s a good chap,” he’d scolded gently. It was like being savaged by a goldfish—minus the four-letter _good_ thrown in, but that was the _but-it’s-a-saying_ sort of slip Crowley had been slowly coming to terms with ever since they’d averted the Apocalypse and severed ties with their respective sides. 

The thing was, Crowley had been growing increasingly aware since those particular events that he didn’t really have any hobbies, per se. He still tempted and caused general low-grade foment as a matter of course, but that was slightly too out of habit for him to consider it purely for fun. He liked sneaking into movie cinemas without paying, because he quite enjoyed films, but it was a bit annoying to travel outside of London to find something new to watch and the local places only changed their lineups so often. 

For a while, the demon settled for slithering into the Bentley and blowing off steam by running red lights at unsafe speeds around central London. It rather lost its appeal after a few hours, though, and just as he was starting to consider locating the nearest decent pub, a pedestrian stepped unwittingly into his path. Crowley, against his better judgment, slammed on the brakes. 

“Oi!” he shouted, rolling down the driver’s side window and leaning out to level a scathing glare at the rather gangly young man now sitting white-faced on the edge of the pavement. “Do you make a habit of walking about with your head up your—Wait a minute, I’ve seen you before.”

“You have?” quavered his almost-victim, who just barely caught the glasses threatening to slide off his long nose. “Er . . . sorry?”

“You were in Tadfield,” Crowley told him. “At the airbase. Thought you lived out there now, with the book girl.”

The young man blinked. “I do,” he answered hesitantly. From the way he was squinting, it seemed he was trying very hard to remember where (or possibly if) he remembered seeing the Bentley’s driver before and drawing a blank. “I’m just in town visiting my mum. Sorry, I can’t seem to recall. . . .”

“That’s fine,” Crowley told him, suddenly in slightly better spirits. “Know any good pubs around here? Get further back off the road so I don’t park on your shoes.” 

A weak protest about this being a No Stopping zone was waved off without concern, and it wasn’t ten minutes before they had secured a table and a couple of pints. Crowley’s new companion’s name was, he learned, Newt. Sounded like a slightly damp sort of name, but then Newt seemed to be a slightly damp sort of person, all slouches and hiding behind dark hair that looked longer than Crowley vaguely recalled from Tadfield, apparently having missed several trims in a row. 

Several rounds of pints passed by, and so far Newt was proving to be at least mildly entertaining company. From a demonic perspective at least. 

Crowley was saying, “So you’re shacked up with Book Girl—”

“Anathema,” Newt supplied, not for the first time. Crowley waved it off. 

“Too hard to remember. Shacked up with her, and the two of you not even engaged. Good for you!”

“Well, we’ve . . . we’ve talked about it. There’s things we both want to get done before, um, tying the knot.”

Crowley gave him a sympathetic look, or at least as sympathetic a look as possible from behind the sunglasses. “Worried she’ll turn you down?” he asked, suddenly feeling a bit maudlin at the idea. “Visiting your mum because she wants you out of the sh—the house every now and then so you’re not underfoot?”

“What?” Newt blinked very rapidly at him. “No, we really have discussed it. I would’ve proposed the day I met her I think, it’s just, I do want a steady job. Not that I think I have to support her,” he added quickly but, Crowley noticed, quite earnestly. “Her family’s quite well off, actually. I just want to, you know. Actually do something with my life. Have a career. Be more. . . .” 

Newt trailed off, and Crowley’s finely-tuned radar for humans leaving something out (usually some fine detail that might make all the difference in tailoring a temptation) went _ping._

“More what?” he prompted, casually adding a bit of fortification to both their drinks just as Newt paused for a few self-conscious gulps. 

After a long pause to finish swallowing, Newt coughed and then continued. “More . . . myself, really.”

“Like how?” Crowley prodded. 

“You really want to know?”

“Kid,” Crowley sighed, “look. I’ve been around the block. Thousands of times. You literally could not say anything that would shock me.”

Sometimes, he’d learned, all it took was the offer of an impartial ear. 

Newt took a deep breath, and another gulp of his drink. 

Then _she_ told Crowley something that did surprise him. But shock? Shock wasn’t anywhere in the room. And, because it was a Tuesday and he had nothing on for the rest of the day, he replied, “Cool. I think I could probably help with that.”


	3. A Tuesday in July, 5 Months Ago

After the first few meetings, Crowley had come to a conclusion about Newt. It wasn’t that Newt actually was a damp sort of person—although her palms definitely tended to get sweaty when nervous—but that she lacked confidence. The world wasn’t seeing her the way she felt needed to be seen, yes, but she also had no clear vision of what that even _was_ beyond the bare minimum of _not male_. 

She came to London once a week, mostly for medical appointments but also to visit her mum, who was very supportive. Mrs. Pulsifer had always been a firm believer that her son could do anything he put his mind to and didn’t see any reason to think her daughter would be any different. And now, after going round to the doctors and then to her mum, Newt had a standing consulting appointment with Crowley. 

This time, she had brought Anathema.

“Book Girl,” Crowley greeted her, throwing the door to his flat wide to let the two of them in. “Nice to see you again.”

“Speed Demon,” Anathema replied cordially without missing a beat. It took Crowley a second to realize that she wasn’t necessarily aware that he was literally a demon, merely commenting on his driving—he took his cue from Newt, who, from her sheepish look, had obviously told her girlfriend what to expect. “Run down any more cyclists or pedestrians lately?”

“Not since the two of you,” he shot back, smirking, and kicked the door shut behind them. “So, let's get started. Newt, shopping bags are in the spare room. Pick an outfit, any outfit, and show us what you’ve got.”

As Newt hurried off, Anathema trailed Crowley into the sparsely furnished living room and settled on the edge of the very fashionable, and therefore very uncomfortable, black leather sofa. “Bit early in the day, isn’t it?” she asked as he passed her one of the already poured glasses of white wine. 

Crowley shrugged. “It’s late for yesterday. If you don’t want it, don’t drink it.”

“I didn’t say that.” Anathema swirled the wine expertly, sniffed, and sipped. “Nice. Anyway, I was wondering why you’re helping Newt, when from what I can remember you aren’t exactly from the ‘nice guy’ side of things.” There was a protective glint in her eye. 

_Ah_ , thought Crowley, _so that was a pointed greeting after all_. While that sort of thing would ordinarily be irritating, he found himself rather impressed at how tenaciously this human woman had held onto her memories—although being a witch probably helped. 

In answer, he lowered his tinted glasses slightly, just enough so Anathema could see his snake-slit pupils. “Well, I _have_ been around for a long, long while,” he drawled. “But mostly I’m just bored, so why not?”

“She doesn’t have to sell her soul or anything, does she?” Anathema pressed suspiciously. 

Crowley waved a hand dismissively and pushed his sunglasses back up his nose. “Nah, the paperwork for that is hell.” He smirked at his own little joke. “But like I said, I’ve been around for a while and I like to think I’ve learned a thing or two. Does she know, by the way?” 

“Of course. We talk about everything.”

“Fair enough.” Selecting a wine glass of his own, he sprawled across an unyielding but quite decorative easy chair. “Anyway, I’m retired, I can do whatever I want. And even if I weren’t, I’ve got a resume chocked full of experience putting a bad spin on things, I could sell this as an evil deed if I really had to.”

Anathema seemed to accept that, but apparently—and Crowley respected this—still felt like being contrary. She raised an eyebrow in a show of skepticism. “You could spin taking her to get her hair styled, eyebrows shaped, and body waxed last week as evil?”

“You should have heard the whimpers when the wax came off,” he retorted, grinning. “Plus, it was part of a whole spa day thing. That’s promoting Sloth, that is.”

“What about helping her practice sounding more feminine?”

“Encouraging causing confusion and upset to the sort of person who still thinks only God can decide someone’s pronouns and presentation.” 

“Telling her that all makeup looks best when the overall effect is severe and imposing, so that no one dare mess with you lest they be stabbed when you walk all over them in stilettos?”

“Well that’s just common sense,” said Crowley, who had very specific personal preferences and had designed his Nanny Ashtoreth look with all of them in mind.

There was a shuffling noise from the hall and then Newt cleared her throat, catching both of their attention instantly. “Okay, I, um, have something on.” A moment later, she shuffled out looking hesitantly pleased and gave them a little spin, navy maxi skirt swirling around her legs all the way to her ankles. 

“Hm,” said Crowley.

“What?” Newt asked, instantly uncertain. “Did I put it on backward or something?”

“No, I just didn’t expect you to jump straight to the taffeta. You didn’t wipe your palms on it, did you?”

“No?”

“Then we’re fine.” Crowley stood and circled her. It was something he did out of habit. He was used to pacing watchfully around Aziraphale when they met out in the open, especially in parks, and the angel usually accepted it as just something that was happening. Newt, however, kept trying to turn to follow him, until Crowley put a hand on her shoulder to make her stop. “Hold still a minute, I’m trying to show Book Girl something.”

“Anathema,” Newt corrected automatically. Anathema hid a smile behind her wine glass. 

“Anyway,” Crowley continued, “look. You’re an inverted triangle body shape. Wide shoulders, narrow hips, slim legs. This looks good, right?”

“Mmm,” Anathema agreed. 

“That’s because it comes up high like this and then flares out a bit. Accentuates the narrow waist and makes you look like you have more hips than you actually do. Balances out the silhouette.” He nudged Newt again, guiding her to stand facing Anathema. “Quick question, did you pick the long skirt because you admire them on her?”

Newt blushed. “Maybe. Why, is that bad?”

“Nah, just thought you might take the opportunity to pay your girlfriend a compliment.” Crowley gave her a conspiratorial wink, which to his diabolical amusement made Newt blush harder. 

The rest of the afternoon flew by more quickly than Crowley had expected. Between trading quips with Anathema and conspiratorially nudging Newt to relax, he realized he was actually having fun, even joining in on the fashion show with some of his old Nanny Ashtoreth ensemble. 

Not that it was all skirts and dresses. He had picked out a wide selection of trousers that ranged from feminine to androgenous, some flared and some more tailored looks to suit any occasion. And after a few glasses of wine Newt even went out of her way to give him some tips for hiding a five o’clock shadow—which he didn’t need, really, having the ability to bend reality just enough that humans would see what they expected to see rather than what was physically there, but the offering was appreciated all the same. 

It almost started to feel as though he had . . . friends. As in plural, and not limited to just Aziraphale. There was a lot of common ground he shared with the angel that was nowhere to be found with these two humans, but at least the fact that he was a demon was already on the table and not, as these things usually went, a dealbreaker. By the end of the afternoon they’d already made plans for him to stop by their place in Tadfield next week.


	4. A Tuesday in August, 4 Months Ago

The drive to Tadfield didn’t seem so long and arduous when not in the midst of imagining a hellfire-hot metal frame was a functioning Bentley, or while attempting to comb the countryside for a mislaid Antichrist. Crowley sped into town with his windows rolled down to feel the warm late-summer wind in his hair, which he’d decided to start growing out lately, and only slowed when within a few meters of Jasmine Cottage. 

He sauntered up to the front door with a carrying basket in one hand and was greeted by Anathema opening it for him half a second before he rang the bell. 

“Road Menace,” she greeted cheerfully. “What did you bring?”

“Book Girl,” Crowley replied with a nod, with the air of one who might tip his hat if he had one on. Instead, he passed her the basket and stepped inside. “It's the second one we want, but I brought the whole series because it’s no fun watching without context.”

“Hi Crowley,” Newt called, poking her head around the corner and waving from the kitchen. “Popcorn’s almost ready!”

“Is there _really_ a female character named Newt in one of these?” Anathema reached into the basket, pulling one of the boxy cases out and examining it. “And why did you bring VHS tapes? All I have to play these on is the cd slot on my laptop.”

Sighing dramatically, Crowley lifted a hand to snap his fingers. The case in Anathema’s hand was suddenly noticeably slimmer. “Yesss. It’s not her real name but nobody calls her Rebecca, except her brother.”

Newt rounded the corner with a positively giant bowl of only slightly burnt popcorn and settled on the couch. Between hormone replacement therapy and electrolysis treatments, she already looked subtly yet strikingly different from the day Crowley had nearly run her over. (For one thing, her skin was softer, and her hair nearly touching her shoulders. For another, the loose crew neck blouse she had on was made of bamboo fabric—very moisture-wicking, and eco-friendly, which Anathema appreciated.) “So do we start with Alien, or Prometheus? Originals or prequels?”

“Originals, obviously,” Crowley said firmly, at the same time as Anathema muttered fondly, “Nerds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... Because the little girl in Aliens goes by Newt, and this is just a thing I happen to know.


	5. A Tuesday in October, 2 Months Ago

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley like-likes Aziraphale, pass it on.

“. . . . Can you believe that?” Crowley finished around his cocktail straw, sucking down a Halloween Bloody Mary as though it was plain vegetable juice. (The Halloween part was the plastic vampire fangs floating at the top of the glass.) It was balanced miraculously on the nearby arm of the couch in Jasmine Cottage while his hands were indisposed, as Newt was practicing her nail polish skills. She wasn’t very good at it yet but was working with such an industrious attempt at precision that no one had the heart to point that out. And anyway, if he didn’t like the results he could always discreetly change it later. 

Anathema, who’d just come in with a plate of freshly sliced cucumber, asked, “Believe what?”

“Crowley was telling another story about Aziraphale,” Newt replied. She was trying not to grin because it might disturb the face mask she had on. 

“Oh.” Anathema passed out the cucumber to put over their eyes (though Newt demurred as she wasn’t ready for them yet) and settled back into her spot on the couch. “Another one? How long was I in there?”

Crowley popped an extra cucumber slice into his mouth and crunched down on it in exasperation. “As I was just  _ saying _ , Miss ‘I don’t listen to the conversation from the next room over like a normal person’. . . . We went out to lunch a few weeks ago and he finally noticed my hair is longer, and said he said he missed seeing me as often when  _ he _ was the one who wanted me to spend less time in the shop in the first place, and then what? Nothing, that’s what. He doesn’t even invite me over any more, hasn’t for months.”

Anathema rolled her eyes before popping her own cucumber slices over them and leaning back, cozily ensconced amidst comfortable decorative pillows and a fluffy bathrobe that had  _ Princess Witch _ embroidered across the back. “No offense, but aren’t you older than dirt? So it’s been a few months. What’s the big deal?”

“But we’re on the same side now,” Crowley all but whined. “And he’s my best friend. Why doesn’t he want to spend any time with me?”

“Done,” Newt chimed. “Okay, now don’t smudge them. Anathema, you’re next.”

“Thanks, sweetie.” Anathema held out her nearest hand; the other was occupied with a blood-orange mimosa. “Crowley, look—First of all, I think you’re letting Girl’s Night get to your head a little too much. You sound like a teenage girl talking about her first crush.”

There was an ominous pause, and then Crowley growled, “I don’t have a  _ crush _ on him.”

“But you like him,” Newt pointed out in tones of  _ it’s so obvious _ . 

“I don’t—”

“You  _ like _ like him,” Anathema added smugly. 

“It’s so obvious,” Newt agreed. “Whenever you talk about yourself, he’s practically all you end up talking about.”

“And from half the things you tell us, it sounds like he feels the same way and just isn’t sure what to do about it. You have to make some sort of dramatic gesture to get the both of you on the same page, or you’ll be stuck in this same holding pattern for literally all eternity.”

“A dramatic gesture?” Crowley curled his lip. “Like pausing in the midst of an apocalyptic storm to end all storms to have sex under the bed?”

“For instance. Or, you know, since apocalyptic storms don’t come around every day, maybe just try kissing him some time,” Anathema retorted. “You’ve both lived through enough cultures where kissing on the lips doesn’t mean anything, so if he reacts like you’re moving too fast you can just play it off as a holdover from some bygone age.”

Crowley scowled and waved a hand to refill his drink. “There’s no way in Heaven I’m doing that.”

“Why not?” both women asked at the same time, Anathema sounding annoyed and Newt surprised. 

“Because I don’t. . . .” His face screwed up, sending the cucumber slices that were hiding his snake-slit pupils—which was fine, really, because by now the two humans were used to seeing them uncovered on a somewhat regular basis—sliding off. “. . . I don’t know how. I never did the . . . friendly kissing thing.”

“Are you serious?” Anathema demanded. 

“I’m a demon, I’m not supposed to be friendly!”

“What about the other kind of kissing?” Newt asked. “Aren’t demons supposed to, you know . . . tempt?”

Crowley, who was at this point hell-bent on not admitting both that he hadn’t ever seen the appeal of canoodling with short-lived humans nor that he hadn’t wanted to risk  _ any _ chance of other trysts getting in between himself and his best friend, lifted his hand haughtily to inspect Newt’s work. “Not my department. My raison d'etre for being up here has always been more along the lines of causing  _ general _ foment.”

Taking the cucumber slices from her own face, Anathema shared a look with Newt. A silent conversation, the likes of which Crowley was hopelessly deficient at understanding when it didn’t involve angelic blue eyes, passed between them, and then they both turned to look at him. 

“You know,” Newt said a little shyly, “I think we could probably help with that.”


	6. A Tuesday in December, 1 Week Ago

Crowley had never helped decorate a Christmas tree before. In general, he disapproved of the holiday on the grounds that he’d rather liked Jesus as a person, and December 25th wasn’t even the man’s actual birthday. For him, the holiday was second only to Easter in bringing up unpleasant memories of Golgotha. 

But he’d been doing a fair amount of things he’d never done before during the past several of his weekly visits with Newt and Anathema. Plus, tree trimming in Jasmine Cottage had very little to do with religion, as Anathema leaned towards Wicca and Newt landed somewhere between agnostic and generally-not-fussed. The cottage was warm and cozy and lit with the light of a thousand white twinkle lights, and the mulled wine wasn’t half bad. 

“That’s the last one, I think,” Anathema announced, turning back from hanging a two turtle doves ornament on the heavily laden evergreen. 

“Thank Satan, we’ve been at this for hours. Where did Newt skip off to, anyway? How come she gets out of all this work?” Crowley leaned over her and, just to be annoying, pointedly adjusted it slightly so it was facing outward. 

“Thanks,” she said dryly and gave him a peck on the cheek. To his credit, he barely turned bright red at the unexpected affection anymore. “And I don’t know. Don’t worry about it.”

As if on cue, Newt called suddenly from the next room. “Hey guys, come here!”

“Think she got tangled up in the wrapping paper again?” Crowley muttered. 

“Hush.” Anathema took a fortifying sip of her own wine and followed Newt’s voice. Crowley huffed and trailed after her at a more relaxed saunter. “What’s up, babe?”

Newt, who was decked out in a cheerful blue holiday sweater with a snowman on the front and tinsel earrings dangling from her newly pierced ears, waited until Crowley was in the doorway before answering. “Look,” she said proudly, pointing above his head to a sprig of mistletoe fixed in place with a red bow. “I finally got it to stay.”

“Bollocks,” Crowley grumbled, squinting up at the sprig from behind his shades. Another ambush. Well, he told himself, he shouldn’t be surprised. He’d agreed to this. They’d talked him into doing . . . _something_ to let Aziraphale know once and for all how he felt on New Year’s Eve, though he had yet to decide what, and they were helping him practice. 

Honestly, he was about fifty-fifty on whether or not he would actually go through with it. He’d decide when the time came—also, he’d sneakily made no promises about _which_ New Year because, after all, he _was_ a demon. If some silly humans failed to expect that in their dealings with him, benign as his intentions towards them were, that was their own lookout. In the meantime, it was something to do while the angel was effectively keeping him at arm’s length. 

They’d also promised to help prepare him for every eventuality, and he probably should have asked for clarification on how much practice they were offering, if only so he’d know what sort of things they meant to get him up to speed on. 

The humans in question had moved in much closer than arm’s length, and his serpentine nature appreciated the warmth of their bodies. Anathema’s arm was draped around one of his shoulders, her mug of mulled wine near the back of his neck, radiating a soothing heat; Newt reached around to take it, and Crowley’s mug from his unresisting fingers, and put them both on a nearby shelf before settling into a mirroring one-armed embrace. One by one, they kissed him. 

Perhaps it was the mulled wine, or the novelty of having new friends. The past several months, while not long by comparison with the rest of his life, had been a strange sort of freeing that he never would have expected he needed, and he felt no urge to push any of it away. 

“It’s not an apocalyptic storm,” Anathema said, flushed with wine and something else—something Crowley could almost taste in the air— “but it could do. If you want.”

When Crowley didn’t reply right away, Newt ghosted her lips over his ear. “It doesn’t have to be a recurring thing, but . . . we could show you. Like what you did for me.”

Slowly, he nodded. 

Their kisses were soft, and tasted of wine and spices. Crowley let them lead, let them set the pace and boundaries, let his tongue stay unforked and ordinary, because he wasn’t in this to show off. 

Just to get lost for a while.


	7. A Tuesday in December

In spite of the mildly suggestive wording, the first few hours of Aziraphale making all of Crowley’s decisions for him are fairly ordinary. They pass the time with small talk ranging from bookbinding to horticulture. It’s . . . nice. Uneventful, yet comfortable. Crowley all but melts into it, sliding gradually down on the sofa until he could be accurately described as laying flat on his back. And he’s so comfortable that he eventually just blurts out, “I’ve missed you.”

Aziraphale stops talking. He stops, Crowley notices, breathing. Then the next breath comes, and Aziraphale is standing and moving toward the sofa. 

“Up,” the angel says softly. 

Crowley props himself up on his elbows, giving Aziraphale the space to sit down. Once he has, Aziraphale gives an expectant look and Crowley lays back down, head in his lap. Then there are fingers in his hair, sliding across to the nape of his neck to draw his flame-red hair out in a single, slightly wavy waterfall. Gentle touches and warm hands. Though Crowley had long ago shed his sunglasses for the evening, his vision darkens as his eyelids start to droop. 

“Don’t fall asleep just yet,” Aziraphale murmurs, tugging ever so gently on his hair to hold his attention. “I have a request.”

“Hhmnyeah?” he yawns. 

“And feel free to use the safeword if you’re not comfortable with the idea.”

Crowley peers up at him curiously. “Spit it out, angel.”

This seems to ease Aziraphale’s nerves a little, and the gentle hair petting resumes. “I’d like to trade bodies for a few hours, just to . . . run a quick errand. Please don’t ask why, I promise I’ll explain when I return.”

_ That _ gets Crowley’s attention. Hands in his hair or not, he shoots up and turns on his knees to face the other being, squinting at him, opening his mouth—then shutting it again. No questions, Aziraphale has already made that decision for him, as requested. But what could the angel possibly want with his body?

. . . And after his brain recovers from that internal question, Crowley gives a rare blink and shrugs, carefully. “As long as you’re not planning on going back into Hell for some reason, I guess I’m fine with it.”

“Of course not,” Aziraphale replies easily, and Crowley is able to relax a tiny bit more. He knows when Aziraphale is lying—Well. When the world isn’t ending in the next day or so, and he has time to pay attention properly, he knows when Aziraphale is lying.

“Well, then . . . yeah. Okay.” Crowley swallows, and thinks guiltily back to last week when things had gotten a bit out of hand, thanks to all the mulled wine. There had been consent all around, but he’d gone farther than he’d meant, and it was weighing on the conscience that he, as a demon, wasn’t supposed to have. “When you get back I, er, have something to tell you too.”

Aziraphale gives him an odd look, but doesn’t question. Just takes his hand and . . . 

. . . They swap. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the curious, Adenil's prompts were:
> 
> — I have a soft spot for trans woman Newt Pulsifer. 
> 
> — More Newt/Anathema/Crowley content! Could even have background A/C content.
> 
> — Mismatched relationship expectation between Crowley and Aziraphale, in particular if Crowley is the one who feels like he has to bend his expectations to fit Aziraphale's. Perhaps Crowley likes to be in Aziraphale's bubble all the time but Aziraphale really needs his space and is annoyed by Crowley always getting under foot.
> 
> And one more, but that will come later.


End file.
